Acheron

Ever since her encounter with the Spearmaiden, Achlys had become gripped with fear. She followed her father around the cathedral in a neurotic state and if he was out of her sight for more than a few minutes, she began to cry out for him. What was worse, she refused to leave the cathedral's grounds, even if was to visit a place she was familiar with. To see his daughter consumed by terror at her own home, was beyond distressing for Karthus; he was distraught.

He had confronted Hecarim about this, demanding to know why the Horseman had left Achlys. His choir had swirled around him, prepared to attack should Hecarim turn violent, but it never came to that. Hecarim was irate, of course, but his response to Karthus's accusations was uncharacteristically controlled.

"I was summoned, just as you were," Hecarim said, "and was forbidden from bringing your pitiful daughter along. A command cannot be ignored. "

Though Karthus had resented Hecarim's description of his daughter as 'pitiful' he could not argue the truth in his statement as well; the will of the Mist could not easily be resisted. And so Karthus was left to put back together his daughter's shattered bravery.

The one small mercy that he had been afforded was Katherine. The fisher wraith had remained at the cathedral and rarely left Achlys's side, only doing so when directly commanded by Karthus. She comforted the girl, distracted her when Karthus had other business to attend to, and most importantly, joined the other resident undead of the cathedral in driving off the hungry spirits that were drawn to Achlys's fear.

It was during one of the rare times when Katherine had Achlys distracted that he traveled to Helia and ascended to the sanctum of the Chronicler of Ruin. At his approach, the doors to her library swung open, allowing him entry. She stood at the far side of the chamber, her back turned to him as she overlooked the ruins of the once great city. Even with her gaze wandering the ancient roads and alleyways below, Karthus's approach was not unnoticed. As soon as his form crossed the threshold to the library she addressed him.

"Karthus," she said in her eternally cold voice, "Deathsinger, Harbinger, Father. You are alone today, a shame. I had desired to speak with Achlys about her meeting with Vengeance. Encounters with her often result in a spirit's destruction. Achlys's survival was an unexpected outcome."

"It is because of that encounter that I am here," Karthus responded, "though neither her body nor spirit were destroyed, her bravery has been."

"She has a timid soul."

"I seek to change that."

"I know. You believe that that golem shard will aid you."

"I know it will. With a constant guardian, she will have no reason to fear."

"She will have no reason, or you will have no reason?"

"Does it matter? She must be safeguarded against further danger. Will you aid me in it?"

The Chronicler finally turned to face Karthus.

"Without hesitation," she responded.

Karthus nodded and brought forth the crystal he had claimed from the golem. He placed it on a lectern in the center of the room and moved back so that the Chronicler could more closely examine the relic.

"The heart of a golem," she commented, "few remain on the Isles."

She placed her hand on the massive crystal. The magic trapped within shone brighter at her touch and, for a brief moment, the light within the Chronicler's eyes also gleamed, as though recalling some ancient memory of her home. But almost as soon as it occurred, it dissipated.

"I have already lent you what text about golem creation has survived," she continued, "have you read it?"

"All of it," Karthus answered, "I am confident that I will be able to weave the magic needed."

"Then why is my aid required?"

"I require records of great guardians and warriors, whose deeds I can sing into the creation of her protector. I desire the being's heart to be awash with this noble intent."

"Tales of heroes and champions," The Chronicler nodded, "I can provide that."

"And," Karthus continued, "I know that the creation of this guardian would be of interest to you and that you would want to bear witness to it."

The Chronicler's grim mask was unchanged, but Karthus could sense that below it, she was smiling. She turned her attention to her wall of tomes and scrolls. With her hand held aloft, she called out the names of several ancient warriors and the texts pertaining to them drifted down from the wall to hover before her.

"Vasiliki the Wise, the Mother General, the Peerless Tactician. She was a revered military leader and cared for those serving under her as though they were her own children. As such, she spent endless hours planning her battles to ensure minimal casualties. She died peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by those who served her."

"Toma the Wanderer, the Cartographer Warrior, the Solitary Swordsman. He wandered the wildernesses of the world, recording the locations of distant villages and aiding those he met on the road. He was known as a stubborn survivalist, as skilled with the bow as he was with the blade. Then one day he boarded a ship sailing to the East and was never seen again."

"Hellä the Benevolent, Priestess of Jan'ahrem, the Breeze Caller. She came to these Isles to establish a cult for her wind goddess and made this city her home. She was loved by the sailors, as her magic offered protection for their vessels. The Ruination claimed her. Now the breezes she summons ferries the Mists faster across the seas."

"Mitja the Steadfast, the Prince's Shield, the Devoted Defender. Saving a young prince from assassination raised this soldier from commoner to renowned hero. His devotion to the king's family never wavered and he saw the young prince he had saved ascend to take the throne. He died as he lived, in service to his king."

Karthus examined each text that was presented to him, finding aspects of each figure that he hoped to imbue his creation with. Time steadily slipped away as he continued to read, the Chronicler presenting a new hero's tale to him as soon as he finished one. Eventually, he raised his hand, signaling for her to stop.

"I thank you, Chronicler," he said, "I believe I am ready to cast the spell."

The Chronicler gave a short nod before calling all the texts back to her and returning them to their proper places on the shelves. As she worked, Karthus began to surround the crystal with magical runes. Bright lines of balefire remained where he traced his fingers over the floor. As each rune was written, the air grew colder, though the dead did not notice this. The magic within the crystal flickered, as though trembling with anticipation for what was about to happen.

The Scriveners that dwelled with the Chronicler curiously circled the runes until a wave of the Chronicler's hand sent them back to their eternal task of recording the dead. With the runes in place, Karthus alone levitated in the circle with the crystal. The Chronicler waited at the edge, ethereal quill and ancient vellum in hand to record what would be witnessed.

Karthus placed both his hands on the crystal, and undertook the creation process. He began by pouring his own magic into the vessel. It flowed easily into the crystal, mixing with the corrupted waters within. The murky colors of black and green and teal swirled, growing brighter until suddenly, there was a cracking sound. The surface of the crystal began to fracture, flickers of balefire leaking from within. It hovered above the lectern as more and more cracks began to form. Despite this, Karthus continued with the ritual. He began to sing.

Tales I sing of heroes past, of deeds that have been wrought,

To teach this stone the power learned, by purpose and by thought.

Hear me, stone, and hear me, Mist, for death has shaped the way,

I call a guardian to rise, upon this blessed day!

Cracks continued to form on the crystal. Pieces broke off and shattered upon the ground. But even as the crystal appeared to destroy itself, a shape was taking form. It was a simulacrum of a skull.

I see the peerless mother, clad in wisdom, born of might.

But just one soul must you defend, and keep within your sight.

I hear the wayward swordsman, on the path that he did trace,

And much as he, you will embark, when she must leave this place.

Balefire now completely enshrouded the crystal. It blazed wildly as more magic was funneled into it, both from Karthus and the ambient magic that permeated the Isles.

I feel the wind, so gently called, by one who guides them true,

But gale and worse, you will endure, to guide her gently through.

I sense the heart that once beat strong, behind a steady shield,

Devoted, strong, unshakable, so too you will not yield.

The scintillating skull looked down at Karthus expectantly. There was now intelligence in its gaze. It was awaiting its orders. Karthus held aloft a scrap a fabric, a bandage covered in Achlys's blood. In an instant, the fabric was engulfed in the cold flames of the Isles' dark magic. Its ashes spun through the air like snowflakes as they were being drawn into the halo of balefire that surrounded the crystal.

I invoke one not yet named, who lived among the dead,

Called away from Targon's peak, his heart that knew not dread.

You will guide her, through the years, in joy, in rage, in strife.

For as life once kept the dead, the dead now keep a life!

There was a blinding flash of green. The Scriveners howled as the room was flushed with magic. It clung to the souls of the wraiths as moisture clings to a body. Then, as soon as the sensation began, it ended. All the residual magic was drawn into the crystal, its form glowing like a blade taken from a forge. Steadily the crystal lowered itself back onto the pedestal. Its balefire extinguished and it grew still and dormant. Now it only needed to be brought before its charge and the guardian would fully awaken.

One by one, the runes on the ground flickered out and the chamber grew still. The Chronicler glided over to Karthus. She looked over the crystalline protector, recording every detail of it on her vellum.

"Marvelous," she said, "simply marvelous, Karthus."

Karthus nodded in response. The ritual had left him drained and he felt an exhaustion come over him that he hadn't experienced since he was alive.

"And your creation," she continued, "does it have a name, or should I simply label it as 'guardian' in my records?"

"It does," Karthus answered, "the Targonian I sang of will be the guardian's namesake."

"What is the Targonian's name?"

Karthus silently held out his hand for the quill and wrote the name below the Chronicler's illustration of the guardian.

"I fear speaking his name will awaken it before it is brought to Achlys," he said, "for its bond to her to be strongest, she must be the first being it sees."

"I understand," the Chronicler said, "then depart, Deathsinger. Your daughter awaits."

Karthus gave the Chronicler a bow. With the same care he used to hold Achlys as an infant, he collected the guardian and cradled it in his satchel. As his hands touched the surface of the crystal, he could feel the streams of magic flowing just below the surface, like placing your hand at the surface of a rushing river. Confident that his creation would be safe, he gave another bow to the Chronicler and departed Helia with all the swiftness he could summon.

Upon returning to the cathedral, Karthus immediately made his way to Achlys's room. As he pushed open the door Katherine and several of his own wraiths whirled around, ready to defend the young girl, but at the sight of him, they instantly grew still.

"Father!" Achlys cried out as she ran over and threw her arms around him.

"Hello, Achlys," he said, reaching an arm down to rub her back as she continued to latch onto him.

"Where did you go?" she asked, "I missed you."

"I had to visit Helia. I am sorry I had to leave you alone, but this was important. In the city, I made a new friend for you."

Karthus withdrew the crystalline skull from his satchel and held it before him. Now before its charge, the newly animated guardian activated, wreathing itself in a shifting veil of balefire. Achlys's eyes grew wide at the sight and a smile, the first in days, graced her face.

"Hello," Achlys greeted, "I am Achlys. Who are you?"

She reached up and grabbed Karthus's wrists, pulling on them gently so that she could come face to face with her new friend. At Achlys's touch, the memory of the guardian's namesake blazed forth in his mind.

"His name is - "

"You did well today, Karthus."

Karthus felt the large hand of his mentor clasp him on the shoulder.

"I hardly did anything," Karthus responded as wiped the soot from his hands onto his already stained robes, "I only built a pyre and sang a few words."

"You are too harsh on yourself. You already sing with the skill to rival some of the older tally-men. You may not think much of your words, but to that family, they were invaluable. You saw it in their faces, didn't you? There was sorrow, there always is, but there was also peace."

Karthus shrugged before continuing with his task of cleaning the crematorium. There were several minutes of silence before his mentor spoke again.

"Have you ever felt a calling, Karthus? A moment when you knew what you were meant to do with your life? I felt it years ago, in my old village at the base of Targon. People from all over the world flocked to the mountain. I preformed the final rites for many a traveler, knowing that few would ever descend from the peak."

"But every time I watched groups depart, willingly walking to their deaths, I began to wonder about those who had no choice but to die. Those who, like your sisters, were stuck by plague or war or famine. Who would provide comfort to them and their families? I could be doing that. I could be offering them peace. So I left Targon and eventually made my way here to Noxus."

"My story isn't so grand. My sisters died and I followed the corpse collectors here. I do not believe that there was anything divine about it, just a curious child."

"There does not need to be a rain of starlight for something to be divine. The Kindred take many forms, as does fate. But whether you believe in fate or not does not matter now, what does is that we are both here now and we can offer our gifts to those who need it most, both living and dead. Peace, Karthus, do not forget that is what we offer. Peace."

"I understand, Master."

"I know I am to be your teacher but do not be so formal with me. Please, call me – "

"Acheron."

Greetings Summoners,

I hope you all are having a pleasant summer. Remember, there will be a new chapter of this fic every Wednesday this month (plus a bonus on the 8th for my birthday) so get ready for a whole month of Shadow Isles goodness (evilness?). I would also like to take the time to thank my Wonderful Spouse for writing the words to Karthus's song. Best partner I could ask for. As always, feedback is appreciated.

Best of luck on the Rift,

-Gwoo